Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Beatrice retrieved the towel, holding it out with a composure that belied the fluttering in her chest.
Leo rose from the bath in one single, fluid motion, water sliding down his broad shoulders and chest. She kept her eyes on his face, maintaining the dignity of acknowledgment while resisting the urge to let her gaze wander.
“Thank you,” he murmured, wrapping the towel around his waist with effortless control before stepping fully out of the tub.
Droplets clung to him, catching the lamplight like tiny stars on skin that was both hard and alive.
Despite herself, Beatrice’s eyes strayed, drawn to the strength in his shoulders, the subtle flex of muscles across his chest and arms, the faint scars hinting at experiences she could only imagine—
“You’re staring, Duchess,” he observed, though his tone held amusement rather than censure.
Heat flared in her cheeks, but she made no effort to hide it as she went and sat down on the bed.
Her gaze stayed steady. “Perhaps I am,” she relented, letting the words fall with unexpected frankness. “But not for the reasons you think.”
Leo arched an eyebrow, drawing the towel more securely around his waist. “Enlighten me, then.”
Beatrice’s fingers twisted in her skirts as she searched for the right words.
At last, she lifted her chin, meeting his eyes squarely. “Because I see more than I expected to. Not merely the rake who swept me into a marriage of convenience. Not merely the duke who bathes in ice for sport. I see… a man who was shaped by cruelty. And yet still a man who stands before me.”
His amusement evaporated, replaced by a stillness he could not entirely disguise. “A rather grim portrait,” he murmured.
“No,” she said quickly, her voice firm despite the faint tremor that betrayed her nerves. “Not grim, but resilient. The ice does not make you who you are, Leo. Your father does not. You do. And I think—” She exhaled. “I think you are a good man, whether you believe it or not.”
Silence followed, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain against the window. Her words struck with more force than any accusation, for they carried no demand, no judgment. Only conviction.
Leo moved before she could even think to step back. She felt rather than saw him cross the space, the faint chill of his damp skin brushing past her as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her.
The mattress dipped under his weight, and she turned to face him, pale but steady, aware of the cold radiating from him against the warmth she offered.
Then, almost without thought, her hand reached out. She pressed it to his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. His hand came down over hers, trapping her fingers lightly, and she felt the subtle strength in his touch.
Her eyes stayed on his, never straying, drinking in the man before her. She saw him fully, without pretense.
“You are unlike anyone I have ever known,” he murmured.
The words struck her as if torn from a part of him that rarely spoke.
Her lips parted. “And you continue to astound me.”
The distance between them vanished as if the storm itself conspired to draw them closer. Her breath mingled with his. No fear lingered in her gaze, only a clarity that shook him more than any icy water ever had.
He leaned in. She met him halfway. And he kissed her.
Their lips met with surprising gentleness, a question rather than a claim.
Beatrice answered instantly, pressing her hand against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her palm, grounding herself.
He deepened the kiss, savoring her lips, and she felt the faint hitch of her breath, the subtle catch in her chest that made her pulse quicken.
Outside, the storm, the search for Philip, the shadows of their past… it all fell away. There was only Leo—cold and solid against her warmth, a presence that demanded a response.
When he broke the kiss, it was not to retreat, but to trail his lips along the delicate line of her jaw and down the column of her throat.
She trembled as heat pooled in her core, but her fingers threaded through his damp hair, urging him closer, keeping him there.
“Your… Your Grace,” she breathed, but he shook his head.
“Leo. You called me by name only a moment ago. Do it again,” he said.
The sound of it sent warmth to places both thrilling and intimate.
“Leo,” she whispered, letting his name slip like a prayer and carry her surrender.
Leo laid her back on the thin mattress, careful with his weight, reverent in every movement. His hands found the fastenings of her gown, and she guided them, arching into him, letting her lips meet his again, fervent and unguarded.
“You feel so good in my arms, Beatrice,” he murmured against her mouth as his hands slid over the lacings of her gown, then hovered, as if in silent question.
She answered with action, her hands guiding his, helping him peel back stubborn fabric, her breath warm against his cheek.
Layer by layer, he bared her. The lamplight danced across her pale skin, highlighting the rise and fall of her chest. She did not shrink, did not avert her eyes. She looked at him squarely, and in her gaze was a raw honesty that unraveled him more than any seduction ever could.
“You are exquisite,” he said, his voice low, unguarded, impossible to ignore.
Her cheeks flamed, but she held his gaze. “You need not flatter me, husband.”
“I do need to,” he insisted, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I need to, for it’s the truth, wife.”
Her lips quivered, a faint smile curving them, and she pressed herself closer, tasting the truth of his words, letting the heat inside her bloom and spread.
He lingered, brushing a fingertip along her jaw, his gaze dark and amused. “Tell me,” he murmured, “what would the Mysterious Earl do next?”
Beatrice froze, a faint laugh escaping her lips despite the flutter in her chest. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing. “I’ve only ever read about it.”
“Only read about it?” Leo teased, leaning closer so his breath tickled her skin. “Then perhaps I must show you.”
Her pulse quickened at the suggestion, at the intimacy of his words. A shiver ran through her, equal parts anticipation and uncertainty. She parted her lips, searching for an answer, direction, but found none.
She had never done this before. She didn’t know what to expect.
“Do you wish to tell me?” he asked softly, tilting her chin up. “What you want me to do?”
Her breath caught, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered shakily.
“Then I shall guide you,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of her neck.
His lips were warm, insistent, and she felt the weight of his hands on her, steady and reassuring. The trust and heat between them coiled tighter, and Beatrice let herself melt into it, her fingers tangling in his hair.
When at last he lowered his mouth to the soft heat between her thighs, her gasp filled the chamber, mingling with the roar of the storm outside. She clutched the sheets, then his shoulders, caught between disbelief and desire.
“Leo—” Her voice broke, breathless, pleading.
His tongue circled her drenched bud, and she moaned loudly, unable to gather her wits before he pressed closer to lap more deeply inside her.
Her nerves sizzled and burned with explosive fury as he opened her and reignited her with each clever stroke of his tongue. The blinding fever of her ecstasy had returned with full force as he relentlessly tantalized and teased her.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her, the vibration coaxing a cry from her lips. “Let go, Beatrice. Give it to me.”
She did. A cry, muffled against her hand, escaped as waves of ecstasy consumed her. Her body trembled, her thighs clenched around his head, and her fingers tangled in his hair.
He lingered, patient and unhurried, drawing out her pleasure until she sagged against the mattress, spent and breathless.
When he finally lifted his head, she caught him licking his lips, his eyes dark with triumph.
Her gaze met his, dazed but lucid. “I did not know,” she whispered.
He stretched beside her, propping himself on one elbow and brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “What did you not know?”
“That it could be like this,” she admitted, her voice raw with wonder. “That it could feel… so good.”
His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to echo inside her. “Then I am honored to help you in that discovery,” he murmured.
She laughed softly, almost shyly, but her hand slid over him, pulling him closer. Pressing her face to his chest, she let her heat seep into him.
“My little fireplace,” he breathed, half awed, half dazed.
“You’re an iceberg,” she replied softly, tightening her hold on him. “But I’ll fix that.”
He let out a low, muffled laugh into her hair.
And in the storm-lashed inn, she curled against him, letting her heat chase away the chill that had long defined him.
And perhaps he could warm the chill that had been inside her, too.
“Leo, wake up. The storm has passed.”
Leo stirred, blinking against the morning light, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight resting against his chest.
Heat pressed against him. Beatrice, curled into his side, her dark curls brushing the pillow, her breath soft and steady against his skin.
For the first time in years, perhaps since childhood, he had slept without the usual vigilance, without the constant watchfulness that had become second nature.
Morning light filtered through the modest curtains, turning the small room into something almost unreal, gilding it in gold. The storm had passed, leaving only the soft patter of water from the eaves.
He remained still for a long moment, absorbing the quiet, the closeness, the rare sense of peace that her presence gave him.
“Mmm,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep as he traced a finger along the delicate curve of her cheek. “Good morning, Beatrice.”